Falling for the Killer

Stefano got up to grab another drink and I scanned the room. It was a dive, one of many in my territory, but a lot of working guys came in here after their shifts to unwind. Tables were packed with men laughing over beers while flatscreens played the Phillies game above the bar. I was bored, and I was tired, and for the past couple of weeks I hadn’t felt like myself. I didn’t know why—I’d never gone into a funk before. I had endless energy and a boundless positive attitude, and I loved my job. I loved breaking knees and slinging drugs and kicking down doors. I loved collecting debts and burning down buildings and dominating my neighborhoods.

And yet things felt off, somehow, and I didn’t know why.

As Stefano leaned in up at the bar to chat with some blonde drunk local girls, my phone rang. It was an unknown number and I frowned at it for a second before answering.

“Gian,” I said.

There was a short pause. I was about to hang up when the voice on the other end stopped me.

“I didn’t want to call,” she said.

And then it came back. Ash from that retirement party.

It was definitely her. I’d been dreaming about that voice ever since I had her up in that empty lounge. Small girl, big green eyes, luscious lips, thick, black hair piled high on her head, curves for miles. She was tight and petite and perfect, but she walked like she had a rod down her spine, and she looked around like she owned the world.

A rich girl with a rich girl’s problems.

I didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again, but I hoped I would. I hadn’t felt like that with a woman in a long time, and one taste wasn’t enough for me. But I knew better than to fuck with that world.

She was on a whole different level.

I knew her family. The Adamsons were notorious in Philly for being massively wealthy and connected at all levels. They had friends and family in the government, friends and family in business, and friends and family in consulting. They ran a hedge fund that minted money, and she was practically royalty.

Queen Ash. Hot Ash. The best sex I’d ever had.

Untouchable Ash.

“What can I do for you, Ash?” I asked softly, unable to keep the smile from my face. Up at the bar, something Stefano said made the girls laugh. Charming bastard.

“We need to meet,” she said.

I chuckled and pictured her face, straining to keep control while I fucked her. It was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever witnessed.

“I thought you said we’d never do that again?” I asked.

She sounded tired. “Not for that,” she said. “Something else. It’s important. Please, Gian.”

I sat up straight. “Are you okay?” I asked, and thought of that skinny, preppy fuck. He had the audacity to grab her arm and hurt her right there in a crowded room, and nobody did shit about it because he’s rich and powerful, and she’s rich and powerful, and all those fucking dicks were scared of them. It was pathetic, and I wanted to rip his skull off.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I mean, I’m sort of fine. Can we just meet, please?”

“Come to my place,” I said.

A short pause. “It’s not for that,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “But it’s safe. I promise, I won’t come on to you.”

Another pause. But then: “Okay, text me the address. I’ll be there soon.”

Then she hung up. She must’ve been desperate if she agreed to come to my house and I felt a spike of uncertainty.

I shouldn’t get mixed up with an Adamson daughter. Ash was hot, smoking hot, and way out of my league. That whole world was on another level, and although I had some sway and power within the Valentino family, those aristocratic bastards were well beyond me. Getting mixed up with them could be a serious problem.

And yet she’d sounded scared, and I wasn’t the kind of man to turn my back on a woman that needed my help.

Especially not a woman like Ash.

I got up and texted her number my address. I had a townhouse in South Philly in a quiet neighborhood at the edge of my territory. I caught Stefano’s eye and waved to him.

“Where the fuck you going?” he called out. “I made friends.”

The two girls smiled and waved.

I shook my head and walked off. I didn’t have time for his shit or his girls.

I drove back home as fast as I could, but it wasn’t fast enough. When I got out of my truck, I spotted her already sitting on my stoop. She must’ve been in the city when she called.

She wore tight, black jeans and a flowing white blouse. Her hair was up again and small stray wisps were pushed over her tiny, shapely ears. She bit her lip as I approached, hands in my pockets, head tilted to one side. Everything about her screamed money—the way she sat, the clothes she wore, even the way she looked around like she could buy the place if she wanted.